


Like Lightning and Summer Rain

by Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox



Series: Dream a Little Dream (Of How You Want The World To Be) [1]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Gratuitous use of metaphors, M/M, Minor Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, mentions of poison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 15:45:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4185576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They knew it when they touched. It was like a shock of electricity jumping through their veins, like their heartbeats jumping to align themselves in perfect order. He breathed; everything was wonderful, if only for a moment.</p><p>(AKA, the Soulmate AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Lightning and Summer Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/gifts).



They knew it when they touched. It was like a shock of electricity jumping through their veins, like their heartbeats jumping to align themselves in perfect order. He breathed; everything was wonderful, if only for a moment.

So this was the _Jean_ that wrapped around his ring finger. So this was his supposed perfect other half. His _soulmate_. Treville  didn’t disappoint. Armand had thought, for one dreadful moment some time ago, that perhaps his soulmate would be so much younger than him; that their time together would be so little, and Jean would have to live without him for ages. But Jean-Armand du Treville was strong and broad shouldered and not young, exactly, but not horridly old either. He was perfect. Richelieu would have him forever, if only he was allowed.

And then reality came back, crushing him. "Well?" Louis said, expectant and childish and no, no, no, just a little more time. He was so close. So close.

The church was strong and proper and no one could disobey it. The church was strong and proper, and said soulmates between two men were either platonic or unnatural. (He knew for certain that this would not be platonic. Had known since he was fourteen and the stable boy smiled his way, and Richelieu dreamt of kissing him.)

"A pleasure," he said, because Louis was waiting for him to say something.

"Likewise," Treville muttered, though he seemed a little out of it.

He was perfect. Armand wanted to keep him. Forever. Have him smiling on his estates, have him as the other Duc de Richelieu. To be together. Equally, perfectly. He wanted him in any way possible. In ways that were impossible.

Louis prattled on about something, he could hardly hear him. Time moved slowly, if it actually moved at all. He watched him through the corner of his eyes, pretending to be focused on the king. He wasn't, though, his eyes followed Treville's every move.

A part of him felt giddy, a part of him felt morose. In a different world, perhaps, and he could have taken him into his arms and kissed him, but now—

Now any soulmates were practically useless for the highborn, even those with traditional genders. Those of noble birth married strategically. The queen, he knew, had _Constance_ wrapped around her wrist; he had only seen it  once due to the mix up of gloves, but the fear in her eyes made him know that there wasn’t a Louis on her other wrist, despite the King’s own soulmark of _Anne_.

“Are you alright, Cardinal?” Louis.

“Of course,” he said. “Apologies.”

“You aren’t getting ill, are you?” Louis was rather concerned, how touching.

“No,” He said, but then as his eyes drifted towards Treville again he said, “Perhaps just a little under the weather, Your Majesty.”

“Go rest, Richelieu,” Louis said. “We can’t have France’s first minister getting ill on us, now can we?”

~~

He went to Treville’s office, knocked. The door opened; “You shouldn’t be here,” Treville said immediately. It didn’t hurt. Not really.

“We need to speak to each other,” Richelieu said.

“It’s not safe.”

“Is anywhere?”

Sighing, Treville let him in. “You still shouldn’t be here,” He said. “People will talk.”

“You’re the Captain of the King’s Musketeers. As the first Minister of France, I have every reason to speak to you.”

Some of the tension eased out of Treville’s shoulders. “I suppose so.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing against  Treville’s wrist.  Again, like a strike of lightning, but much more pleasant.  Eventually the sensation would mellow, but not quite yet.“What are we planning to do about this?”

“I didn’t know we were planning on doing anything,” He said quietly.

Richelieu stiffened. “Well surely you weren’t planning on ignoring it.”

“Wouldn’t that suit you better, _Your Eminence_?” Treville hissed.

 _Oh._ “No.” His mouth felt dry.  “No, that wouldn’t suit me better at all.”

Treville went very still, staring at him warily. Richelieu---not desperate, never desperate, but very close to it--- wanting to reassure him, wanting to prove himself to him, kissed him. It was better than anything in his life, though chaste. It was a promise, it was a dream, it was everything that could ever be.

And then they broke apart. "It's dangerous," Treville said, not looking him in the eye.

"Not as dangerous as it could have been," he said. "But dangerous all the same." He agreed, and sighed."I cannot ask you to give up your safety."

There were rumors of people with names like them going missing, these days. Nothing that could be substantiated, but enough that it made people afraid. It was bad enough having the names. To be seen together---it could be the end of everything.

He turned on his heel and left, not looking back. It wouldn’t do to dwell on things that he couldn’t have.

~~~

They didn’t stop seeing each other, there was no possible way. And that hurt worst of all, perhaps, but he could handle himself.  But it was painful, watching him. Always watching him. Watching him talk to his musketeers about the security detail for the new, and suspicious, Spanish diplomat. Just watching him from across the room, like a sentimental old fool, watching him go about his usual business, and simultaneously be everything that was good that Armand had ever known.

“Richelieu,” Milady said. “Something you wish to tell me?”

“No,” He sighed. “When is the ambassador from Spain arriving, again?”

“Six O’clock.”

“Hm.”

~~~

A knock at his door, it swung open. “You shouldn’t be here.” He said.

“We can’t keep avoiding each other.”

He sighed. “No, I suppose not.”

“We need to work together, Richelieu, or else this will fall apart.”

And so it began. Close, but never touching. Never, ever touching. It was more imperative than ever that the gloves stay on, that no one knew. No one could ever know. Not Milady, not any one of Jean’s damned musketeers, no one. It was a matter of survival.

Even with Louis’s apparent adoration of him, Armand was nowhere near naive enough to believe that he and Treville wouldn’t be instantly imprisoned---or banished---or for godsake, even executed soon after the king found out. The queen was one thing; Louis adored her. He believed, somewhere, that she was still his soulmate, even if she didn’t have his name.

Perhaps they were missing their third, some girl somewhere named Constance with Louis printed on her and Anne scrawled somewhere else. But that was unlikely. And Armand knew better than to believe in happy endings.

Especially not where soulmates were involved.

~~~

He wasn’t sure how it came to this. Or rather, he was sure---he had his eye on that Spanish ambassador since the beginning. “Give us the jewels, or the king dies,” the so called ‘Diplomat’ threatened, drawing the knife tight against the king’s neck. There had been a poison laced into the Spaniard’s food, not enough to kill him, but enough to incapacitate him. It wouldn’t do for him to be dead, had he been a legitimate diplomat.  Nonetheless it appeared as though the poison had been wasted; the Spaniard  had been smart enough to not eat any. And if he killed the king, that poison would be for naught anyway.

“Release the King,” Treville growled, but the man just laughed.

“Release the king?” he said. “But how else would you be...persuaded to give me the money?”

“Release him,” Treville repeated, and honestly, did he think that merely asking the thief to let go would do anything---

“Alright, let’s release the king. But it shall be on the Cardinal’s head instead.”

\---the knife slid onto his throat, cold and sharp. “You would threaten a man of god?”

Oh, Jean.

“If it gets the job done,” the man said. “Jewels. Now.”

The King made a choking noise, then commanded for the jewels to be delivered. “Do not---Do not hurt him.”

How touching.

The thief was kind enough to be patient and wait for his jewels.  Richelieu was half certain that even if he did get the jewels, he would be killed anyway.

Well, alright. He didn’t fear death. But Treville, though he hid it well, looked ruined. Armand didn’t want to leave him alone. Dying was one thing; if he had no soulmate, he would’ve cared little. Save, perhaps, to worry about France without him there.

But Jean changed everything.

Jean was Tuesday mornings and quiet bickering that never really meant anything, not particularly. He was like summer. Strong and warm and intoxicating. In another life, Armand could have forgotten entirely about the rest of the world, if only he had Treville. He wasn’t afraid of dying, but he was afraid of dying without Treville. Whether it was because he didn’t want to leave him alone, or Armand didn’t want to be alone, it didn’t matter. To die would be a tragedy, now that he had Treville.

But he didn’t really have him, and what a curse that was. He had him---in all the ways that the Captain of the Musketeers might know the first minister of France. The names on their hands meant nothing. Perhaps that was the worst tragedy of all.

But it was too late now, wasn’t it? The damned Spaniard didn’t eat the poison. Armand was going to die. He was going to die, and his soulmate was going to watch.

Treville was going to watch him die.

Dear god.

No prayer could save him now, no prayer would save Treville the sight. He held his hand in his other hand and traced his soulmark through the fabric of his gloves. Jean.

The knife on his throat was cold and sharp, and left little room for speech. The Spaniard had heard about the infamously poisonous words of the Cardinal Richelieu, then. Probably from his thrice-damned Musketeer guardsmen---

His musketeer guardsmen. His guards, who weren’t in the room. They must have been waiting outside the door, must have heard the commotion and the threats on the King’s life. On Armand’s life.

He looked at Treville. At Treville who looked concerned, but not nearly as concerned as he should have been, for someone whose soulmate was threatened. He had a plan.

And if Jean had a plan, then Armand would wait with a knife on his neck.

The door shut with a clang. A servant came in with the jewels, head bowed over them. “Well?” The Spaniard spat. “Give ‘em here.”

“Of course,” The servant said, looking upwards, and---pointing a gun at him. There had been no jewels carried by him. He was no servant. He was that Musketeer of Treville’s--- Laflèche. He shot.

The Spaniard had faltered in his surprise. But not so much that the knife didn’t draw tight against Armand’s neck, didn’t draw blood. Musketeers were horrible at making plans, he thought, dimly recognizing the warm liquid dripping down his neck as his own blood. That was never going to come out of the robes.

Someone was shouting. He wasn’t sure who.  Ah---Was that Treville?

~~~

Armand awoke to sunshine, which was unusual, as his room had no windows. His eyes blinked open, blearily staring into the haze of golden light. _Was this heaven?_ He wondered. Then his vision cleared: It was some sort of physician’s quarters.

“The wound was mostly superficial,” Treville said from beside him---wait, Treville? He turned, trying to ignore the pain in his neck. “You’ll live. And still manage to give sermons.”

His voice was still uncertain, but he forced himself to croak,“you hate my sermons.”

His lips tugged at the corners. “That I do,” he said, then. “Armand.”

Treville never called him by his first name. Not in the palace. “Hm?”

“I’ve been an idiot.”

He didn’t have time to ask him what about. Their lips were crashing together, and Treville was entwining their hands. It still felt somewhat like lightning, like a bolt of something exciting and new.

And when their soulmarks touched, the gloves careless thrown off and to the side, it felt like sunshowers in the middle of July: bright and warm and hopeful.   
  


**  
**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [to live (with a knife at your neck)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4201401) by [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele)




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